Each time I cut her peculiar scents
She releases inebriate my being.
Vulnerable and exposed her torn skin
Exudes odours of cascading hormones
Calling predators for saviour as she has learnt
Her enemies have enemies also yet none
Against me. Defenceless she surrenders
Under the gentle caress of summer winds
Sparking my deepest emotions of hesitancy.
Is it just for me to shape her to my liking
For my pleasure? Is it sane for me to adore her
As she elegantly drops afore my brutal touch?
Beams of guilt an instant I an assassin
Without committing murder culpable of the crime,
She does not die conversely rewards me
In unpredicted ways. Flaunting beauty
Hypnotic shades of green, a perfect balance
Of lushness wildness and delicacy.
Regenerating blossoms unveiling strength
She proves her immortality, an oeuvre of the divine.
Yet at twilight in silence she screams,
Calls for me I listen dotingly despite appearances
I care, turn the knob to unbridle water
I shower her and feel, her rejoicement ecstasy
As hideous thirst is quenched.
And though I know each time I cut her she hurts
I also know she loves me and that indeed we share
An intimate rapport fuelled by reciprocal gratitude.
[Featured painting: On The Grass by Carl Larsson, 1902]